


all I want for you to do is take my body home

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-04
Updated: 2006-10-04
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8699650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A (really) short coda to In My Time of Dying, so all the spoilers apply. These are Dean's disjointed thoughts and actions directly after the end of the episode.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** all I want for you to do is take my body home  
**Characters:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating:** R for…vague sexuality  
**Warnings:** incest, m/m slash, sexual themes, fragmented speech.  
**Word Count:** 570  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. This neeever happened.  
**Beta:** Thanks to [ ](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/)**poisontaster** for last minute spotchecking  
**Summary:** A (really) short coda to _In My Time of Dying_ , so all the spoilers apply. These are Dean’s disjointed thoughts and actions directly after the end of the episode.  
  
  
  
  
When something is all you have left, you take extra special care of it.  
  
You don’t let it leave your sight. You worship it, and hope it stays.   
  
You relish the whines and cries of _Dean…God_ , ignore the burning in your scalp as long fingers twist and pull. Let the thick cock bruise your throat as you swallow salty-sweet flesh, groaning around words you’ll never say because you still possess more than enough of your own share of insecurity.   
  
If this is the only way you can show how you feel, what you need, you’re glad to give it up. Ecstatic to know that every grunt and groan, every thrust of lean hips up and into your mouth gives you back a little much-needed power over the situation.  
  
Over what, and who, really matters.  
  
It goes by many different names: partner, brother, soul.   
  
Sam.  
  
_Dean_ , you hear again, and that helpless little sound tastes like salvation. Finally. You want to hear it again, want to brand it inside and out so that the print never fully fades away. Legs, thighs, clench around your shoulders, leaving behind another kind of mark. This one will fade all too soon.  
  
It’s here, in Shitty Motel Room Number Twelve-Hundred and Five, that surrender and loss and desperation coalesce into a fast and frantic blowjob and sticky sheets beneath your hips. You have more skill, more fucking _control_ than this, but it’s all lost now. As lost as the father you always knew but never really had.  
  
_Please_ , Sam says, the words catching in the back of his throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut to block out the concern and hesitance coloring his expression. There’s a stinging at your lip where you’ve pulled a cut wide open, adding a faintly metallic flavor to the semen and sweat. It’s just one more element in a lifelong struggle of pain, pleasure, grief, love.  
  
A stark whisper punctuated by the press of blunt fingertips to your mouth. _It doesn’t have to be like this_.  
  
There’s no other way you know how to be. You’ve always been the balance, and now one side of the seesaw is tipped to the ground forever. You’re unsure where this leaves you exactly, but here you are, playing both sides of the coin – peacekeeper, antagonist. Maybe if you succeed, things won’t fall apart around you.  
  
Again.  
  
Sloe-eyed and flushed, he looks down at you and says, _Let me help you._ Earnest hands reach down, find you shaking and beaten, and it’s too much. There are things you can’t say, and things you’re too afraid to show.   
  
Raw, torn lips at your throat; hitched breathing in your ear. It’d be so easy to slump into those familiar arms and take what’s readily offered. It wasn’t always that way, or maybe it was and you just never knew. Stubbornness isn’t just ingrained in the accused.  
  
_I’ve got you, Dean. We’re not giving up_ , that soft voice chokes, and you’re reminded of determination and terror in a sterile hospital room. You block it out with teeth and tongue and promises to yourself that this time, you’ll be more careful. You made stupid mistakes before, let him leave, but this time all bets are off.  
  
When something is all you have left, you ignore the usual rules and restrictions.   
  
You protect it, with your life if need be. And you’ve had plenty of practice doing that.


End file.
